


The Price of a Good Man

by Alice88wa



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Age Difference, Belting, Blood, Corporal Punishment, Cultural Differences, Dubious Consent, Dwalin just wants some love, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Smut, Is a beating graphically violent?, M/M, Moral Ambiguity, Size Difference, Slow Burn, sad feels, the older dwarves are fucked yo
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-03
Updated: 2013-12-03
Packaged: 2018-01-03 09:07:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1068666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alice88wa/pseuds/Alice88wa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The dwarves prefer a rough-and-tumble but efficient justice system, relying mainly on the idea that if you get caught, you pay the price; if you don't get caught, well, then the wanker deserved it. That's probably why they're all so paranoid about protecting their treasure. Compared to the other races their stance on theft is fairly relaxed, with one major exception: <i>never</i> steal from your host. Even Nori wouldn't stoop that low... probably.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Price of a Good Man

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this is my attempt to write the Hobbit story that's been rotting my brain when I should be working on my Sherlock. I tried to keep this as canon possible (ignoring a few scenes that cropped up in the extended cut after I started writing, grr!), so if you see something you know is incorrect please let me know.  
> All due props to Thorinsmut for http://archiveofourown.org/works/673882/chapters/1233094, which was a pretty heavy inspiration for both Nori and Dwalin in this story. My sources are at the bottom, if you're interested.  
> Work deep in progress, I intended this to be just one long chapter but, as usual, I broke it up so it wouldn't feel too top heavy. Ensuing chapters will roll out over the next few days, expect to see this chapter edited after I get some _sleep_. As always feel free to point out spelling/grammar/tense/errors of any kind.

Dwalin was sick - sick to death of the Shire, sick to death of the halflings, sick to death of being _observed_. Let Gandalf wax fondly about little rivers and rolling green hills, the warrior had reached his limit and past with small folk who whispered in tight bunches as the Company filed by. Thorin's regal sobriety helped temper the group and though they traveled through the Shire with cheerful decorum, it didn't seem to count for a brass penny with the hobbits. Everything scandalized them; tattoos, boots, beards, Bilbo's presence. At the market in Frogmorton, Dwalin and Thorin found their new burglar trapped between two halfling-women who were interrogating (delicately but definitely _interrogating_ ) him about where the Company was going and what these dwarves wanted with him and whether he was _very_ sure he had agreed to this quest. Thorin glowered, Dwalin laughed, the ladies fled and Bilbo, tapping an absurd naked foot, hissed that his respectable image in the Shire was ruined. Why or how, the dwarves couldn't say, only that respectability was very fragile and important and apparently involved a lot of tea. 

Dwalin would never have expected to find himself enjoying a night in Bree but Men, at least, knew how to be discreet in their curiosity. They asked questions with an air of careful indifference, more interested in news of bandits and outlaws than dwarven affairs, and observed the group with quick, polite glances. They did not _stare_. The brazen touch of eyes on his face, his weapons, his back left Dwalin deeply uneasy, as did the halflings eerie silent movements. Gandalf had not exaggerated there. It was unnatural, he thought, wholly unnatural. It was too easy to imagine soundless feet sliding among them in the night, coming up behind, slipping a sharp blade between their ribs. It made his neck itch. The others did not seem to share his tension, vigorously lamenting their dawn turnout from the Prancing Pony. Bombur was especially heartbroken to leave the hobbits and their generous meals behind for good, sulking for most of the day when he found out they would not be stopping for breakfast.

Every morning Thorin rode as if the gates of Erebor would loom up around the next corner and the well-tended road brought uncounted hours on their ponies, breaking only to snatch a meal or water their mounts. It was exhausting and not a little tedious but no one had the heart or authority to deny the exiled king his enthusiasm. Watching him shift restlessly in his saddle, straining ever towards the horizon, Dwalin thought it was the youngest Thorin had looked in decades. Here was the friend Dwalin remembered, a grave young prince who chiseled out a life for his people with little more than his bare hands. The haunted shade had left his mouth and eyes, replaced with conviction and grim purpose. Thorin huffed and begrudged every delay now that he could fairly see the glitter of redemption, far in the East. 

At the moment, nearing the end of the sixth day, as they plodded past the last fields outside Bree, Dwalin was aching, tired, and ready to cleave the next curly-haired farmers brat who popped up to gape at them. He was a dwarf and a warrior, not some gilded Horse Lord to spend all day in the saddle. He should have his feet on the earth and his hammer in hand, hewing a bloody path from here to the Lonely Mountain, not keeping an eye on a soft-handed grocer with aspirations to burglary. What a farce this was. Perhaps Dwalin would be kinder if he wasn't so very _sore_. 

The warrior brought up the rear guard today, only half-listening to Glóin's chatter as he weighed the potential faults in their ragtag group. What he would not give for more fighters among them! Óin and his brother, at least, were welcome and capable additions. Both had fought by Dwalin's side at Azanulbizar - Glóin, especially, had earned his braids that grim day. Barely nineteen winters, scarcely taller than his axe, he carved a bloody mountain of goblins beneath his feet. Was it any wonder his doughty son had campaigned so fiercely to join them, at only sixty-two? Even little Ori was older than that. Little Ori, who had no place out here at all... 

Well, Dwalin had no doubts about the sons of Gróin in a battle. The young princes, on the other hand, were his eternal headache. Untempered, hot-blooded and too fearless by half. Even now they were chirping insults to each other instead of watching for signs of an ambush. They were so _young_ , younger than Dwalin could ever remember being. It made his heart ache. He had to find a way to teach the lads some humility, before the wrong end of a sword did it for him. 

The huff and mutter of disgruntled horseflesh accompanied Kili's laughter, yet another source of danger. He really must pull Bofur aside and talk about his pony, Minty. She was feisty and daring, a match for her rider, but liable to charge straight into the furnace during a fight. The toymaker was a good dwarf and, like many good dwarves, not at all familiar with riding animals. If he wasn't careful Bofur would find himself cut off from the group and very likely dead. Dwalin was no expert horseman but he had to try; the Company looked to him for protection, he at least had to try.

Above it all, Nori's lively patter broke out, a tone he only used when he was trying to rope someone into a wager. From the sound of it, he was trying to convince Bombur he could turn a button into a copper penny (given a little incentive, of course). Dwalin shook his head. That one could talk a goldsmith into gardening, when he put his mind to it. It was a shame he tended to lose as often as he won, except more spectacularly. Not enough restraint, where his brother had too much.

He will have to find time to teach Ori a bit of fighting, an axe or the battle hammer, maybe. _Anything_ besides that charming and rather ineffective slingshot. He made short work of hares and squirrels but Dwalin shuddered to imagine the scribe up against anything but the slowest, dimmest orc. Although that still left him a head above the hobbit, who had brought only his waistcoat and his wits, it would seem. Dwalin had never met someone so laughably unprepared in his life. No weapon, no training, no discipline. No pride, either, from the way he carried on. Ori, at least, had family to fight at his side; Dwalin wouldn't favor any creature going up against Dori's brute strength or Nori, cunning and desperate.

As though he sensed Dwalin's attention Ori glanced back and caught his eye, an odd turn of awareness that had become a familiar note between them. There was a flash of timid smile before the younger dwarf laughed at Nori's slight-of-hand trick. Tomorrow, Dwalin promised himself, tomorrow I will not stare so long. Ahead, the line began to slow.

“We'll take an hour here.” Thorin's voice cut down the column of riders, turning all heads to him, “Eat, drink, get your feet on the ground. We should reach the Midgewaters edge by nightfall. It will be a hard ride but tomorrow we'll give these ponies a rest.” 

An echoed wince across the Company told Dwalin he was not the only one suffering from prolonged exposure to the saddle. It was hard to say who looked more relieved for the break, Bombur or his pony. Oin and Gloin commiserated loudly over their shared pangs while the hobbit fairly slid off Myrtle, legs folding, and collapsed onto the grass. Kili and Fili bent conspiratorially over him and wondered, strictly between themselves, how such a young creature could look _that_ wretched after only a few days on the road. Bilbo's rude response startled a laugh out of all.

Some coped better than others. Bifur tumbled like a landslide off his shaggy mare and dashed to help his cousin who was trying, and failing, valiantly to free his leg from a buckle. The princes seemed impervious to the long hours, brimming with the thoughtless energy of youth. Perhaps he should speak to Thorin about a riding order, pairing the quick and the slow in case of a sudden dismount. Dwalin was proud to note his brother did not groan or wobble with the others, setting aside his pains with dignity to tend Thorin's pony with his own. Their hearts no longer recalled each endured misery, cold and pain and terrible _hunger_ but flesh never forgot the ache, the fog of exhaustion, pushing through it like good soldiers to serve their king first. Older, they were, but still warriors.

Dwalin swung to the ground, gritting his teeth against the tight clench from calves to hip. His thighs demanded immediate attention, threatening to falter under the first steps, but he would be damned if he let Balin outdo him. Deep veins of sibling rivalry resurfaced, unalloyed even after years of separation, and Dwalin stubbornly took both princes mounts as well as him own, determined to surpass his brother's display of loyalty. Walking smoothly, casually, was an exercise in will until hard-won experience stirred to life, remembering how to ignore the burn. Dwalin even let himself swagger a bit. The wry twist to Balin's mouth was proof his efforts hadn't gone unnoticed. Around them the Company broke into its rough groups - less familial on the road than at night - sorted more by age and varying levels of sociability. 

"Only two, brother?" Dwalin drawled smugly, wrangling his charges so they wouldn't get sharp with each other, "All that traveling and you cannae handle three little ponies?"

Balin laughed, weeding a burr out of Sunny's mane, "Quality over quantity, brother, quality over quantity. Thorin will know who to trust with his beauty when I'm done with her." 

Dwalin responded with an impolite hand gesture. Balin had always had a way with words. The mulish urge to irritate his brother drove Dwalin to squat at the waters edge, splashing his face cheerfully, quite as though his backside was not deeply unhappy about this situation. His body was polished for constant motion, great slabs of muscle pounded onto his frame by a lifetime of fighting and toil. He was not built to sit all day. Perhaps it was time to seek out the oldest Ri brother. 

If not for Bombur, Dori might have been the most unfit for riding, having neither the advantage of youth nor discipline and a distaste for what he called 'rough living'. He was one of those retiring dwarves who devoted their lives to the painstaking mastery of gears and levers, never once craving an axe in their hands. His exacting nature did not lend itself well to life on road and he was forever confusing his mount by fussing with the reins or shifting in his seat, trying vainly to get comfortable. Nori, who - if rumors were to be believed - had spent enough time out in the wilds for the entire Company, never missed a chance to needle his brother about his poor form. Certainly Nori carried himself with ease atop his sturdy Daisy and Dawlin caught words like _smuggler_ and _poacher_ whispered in his past. 

Before their journey, Dwalin had only a vague awareness of the russet-haired dwarf whom the townsguard pulled in every few years for the occasional transport of stolen goods or petty theft. As a constable, he had seen Nori for the first time when the entire station was roused to witness the sheer number of knives the intake guards found secreted on his person. For years after it stood as a facility record, only broken when Nori's hair finally grew long enough to start hiding things in. After his promotion to Arbiter, Dwalin himself dealt judgement on a few of his cases, which were remarkable only in their consistency. Nori never spoke to defend himself, never turned on his partners and took Dwalin's strap across his back in silence. If anyone had asked, Dwalin could only have said he was one of the _easiest_ repeat offenders he dealt with and that he wouldn't trust Nori with his pig-iron, let alone his life. After nearly a month in his company Dwalin hadn't gleaned much more, other than Nori was of the firm belief that his older brother was a squeamish ponce. 

Although he would never admit as much, Dwalin was inclined to agree and considered Dori an insufferable dandy. It was a shame that such astonishing strength went to waste in his tinkers shop. It had been a nasty shock, the first time Nori, Bofur and Kili managed to goad Dori into a wrestling match with him. Dwalin accepted any and all challengers, having bested the rest of the Company weeks earlier but he was quickly humbled in Dori's iron grip. Surely the vise of the Maker couldn't squeeze so tight! All payments went to Nori, that day. If nothing else, at least Dori was a wise dandy, as he carried a small fortune in soothing liniments with him much to the party's (initial) amusement. Quietly, as the dawn-to-dusk pace made itself felt, members of the Company began presenting themselves to Dori, requesting - pleading, really - a bit of his hoard. To his credit Dori gave freely and generously, even if he did preen. Oin himself had inspected the salve and, tching his tongue loudly, said it was better than what he could make _out here_ but with the _proper equipment_ he could rival it easily. Still their medicine man used it, gratefully, and that was good enough for Dwalin. As he watered his and the princes ponies, trying to stretch the vise on his lower back without looking like he was trying to stretch, the warrior knew he was ready to swallow his pride and beg some for himself. 

Dori was, predictably, washing his hands in the lazy stream with one eye reflexively on Ori, who was rough housing with Kili and Fili. Dwalin stood beside him for a moment, watching the three younger dwarves shove and laugh, trying to entice Bilbo to get up and join them. The elder dwarf envied them their easy touches, hanging from each other with a simple, artless friendship Dwalin had never quite mastered. Shoulder pressed to shoulder, perhaps, in the cold of the night or a loving spasm of violence against his brother but never this carefree affection. 

There was no time or energy for fondness in the ranks, thrown in with so many other young dwarves whose families were either dead or senseless with grief. He barely remembered his childhood in Erebor and after was just an endless march of heartache and loss, comrades lost one by one to orcs or separation. Or madness. Without the bedrock of normalcy or sympathy, they moved around each other with a kind of brittle restraint which hardened into necessary indifference. No love, no pain, they told themselves proudly, and tried not to die.

“Bright young things,” Dwalin murmured, half-waving at the merry knot.

“I'm sure I was never _that_ young,” Dori declared, “It's the Men, in the Blue Mountains. They're a bad influence on these impressionable minds, I say,”

“They'll grow up soon enough,” the warrior flexed his hands against many puckering scars. “Lads are always excited, their first time away from home.” 

Well, not _us_ , neither of them said.

“Er, speakin' of getting older...” Dwalin began reluctantly, just as Ori took a rather spectacular fall right into the mud. Dori clucked with alarm.

“It's in our pack. Try any of the pockets!” he called over his shoulder as he bustled off, displeasure in every line. 

Dwalin sighed with petty relief that he would not actually have to beg. There's no shame in seeking help, he told himself firmly, and if I don't do it first, Balin won't and then he'll never get to sleep tonight. He watched Dori wipe Ori's very pink face as the younger studiously did not look in his direction. There were weightier flaws than needing a little medicine, after all. 

The Ri brothers shared their bags equally, beginning when Dori's things spilled over onto his siblings more efficient packing and morphing into communal luggage as the estranged family again became comfortable with each other. Dwalin was convinced Dori put up with it because it gave him a transparent excuse to go through Nori's bag and Nori put up with it because it allowed him to switch Dori's things around when he wasn't looking. They did take a kind of perverse joy in annoying one another. 

Dwalin studied Dori's pack with a skeptical eye. The thing was nothing _but_ pockets. How did he ever find anything? At last, feeling vaguely intrusive, he sifted one of the larger pouches. Hair resin, a quill, fussy smelling oil. Blotted sheets of paper, a suspiciously expensive comb, no salve and - Durin's beard, was this a pocket _inside_ a pocket? Dwalin touched the seam curiously, admiring the subtle craftsmanship. He probably would not have noticed it at all if his knuckleduster hadn't snagged the faint edge. Perhaps Dori had more of his brother's cunning than he cared to admit.

What _was_ this? he wondered, hand closing around the familiar caress of silver. Unthinking, Dwalin plucked the curiosity out and immediately wished he hadn't.

It was a lovely little knife, too ornate and blunt to be practical. Delicate carvings curled and rounded the handle, jarringly ungeometric to Dwalin's eyes, meant for small, dexterous hands. This was no tool for dwarves or Men. In fact, Dwalin knew with a sinking feeling where he had seen this pretty piece before; at the table of their newly acquired hobbit as he pressed it insistently into Bombur's hand, imploring him to at least _try_ cutting wedges off the cheese. The knife was pushed aside as soon as the halfling disappeared to flutter over the state of his pantry and Dwalin had not given it another thought. Yet here it was, tucked unassumingly into the bags used by the Company's most colorful and troubling member. 

Dwalin had held his tongue when Nori presented himself before Thorin, alongside his brothers, pledging loyalty to the reclamation of Erebor and signing the contract with quick, furtive strokes. There were whispers of accumulated gambling debts and a deal gone sour with Thirur Stonecutter, a touchy gold lending dwarf famed for his exquisite marble carvings and habit of leaving those who crossed him minus a few... _vital_ parts. Dwalin grit his teeth at the idea of sharing the glories of Erebor with a dwarf he had personally taken the strap to on more than one occasion but they could not afford to turn away even a single semi-willing hand. And, although Dwalin would not say a word of it, he had welcomed anyone who would protect Ori as viciously as a motherwarg. 

Now, the warrior's fist clenched minutely as the first flames of anger licked at him. He had expected better of Nori. Stealing from the table of your host, without exception, was despicable. A bit (a lot) of gambling, poaching out in the wilds, lifting the rare purse, Dwalin could accept but this was a new low entirely. A dwarf who would steal from those who invited him into their home, offered him hearth and meal, how could such a creature be trusted to fight and fend for his companions? Something like this might be grounds to void the contract, if the hobbit claimed grave offense and demanded to leave the Company immediately. Half of Dwalin hoped Bilbo did just that, the other half keenly wished that he had never reached into this bag. 

But now the crime was witnessed, the whole mess had to come to light and be dealt with. A price would have to be paid - in pain, at the least, if not worse. The hobbits didn't seem a very blood-thirsty lot but it was never certain how non-dwarves would jump on these things. Men, especially, could be dreadful in their anger. Dwalin hunted over the ponies back, scenting, seeking that ridiculous three-pointed hair. Nori loitered on the fringes with his usual poised stillness, dancing a lucky piece first over his fingers, then under. His calm detachment only stoked Dwalin's temper.

Carefully, carefully, Dwalin couldn't just charge right at him. Nori was skittish and canny, possessing that same rare perception that made Ori such a promising chronicler and consumed Dori with the most minute imperfection in his tinkering. If he thought for a second Dwalin was coming to haul him up for host-theft, he'd probably be in the wind. Dwalin never would have suspected Nori of cowardice before, but now... Well, he just didn't know, did he? Dwalin cast his face in a bland frown, which was safer at the moment than attempting a smile, sidling alongside his prey as if he were merely very interested in Gloin showing Bifur his old orc bites. 

Nori sensed him, of course, instinctively sliding back into the protection of the trees as the larger dwarf came into his peripheral vision. This was typical of him, though, his face acquiring a blank attentiveness Dwalin knew as the poacher observing everything except where he appeared to be looking. The lucky piece vanished, up a sleeve or into a pocket, Dwalin could never follow. Nori didn't look away from the scene before him, Bofur joining the display of war wounds, as though he could ignore Dwalin into leaving. Dwalin pressed his position and resisted the sudden impulse to reach for the iron manacles he hadn't carried in decades. The older dwarf leaned close to Nori, just shading the edge of his personal space. Silent, moving so they were face-to-face, Dwalin opened his hand without ceremony, giving him only a grim look that said _I know_.

**Author's Note:**

> In my head, Balin lives elsewhere, maybe in another dwarf settlement or a town of men. Dwalin and the others (minus Thorin) traveled together to the Shire for a couple weeks but Dwalin was anxious to see his brother so he pushed ahead. Nori is a more outdoorsy poacher/rogue than an outright thief, he's been away from Ered Luin on and off for years and the Ri brothers have different fathers. Dwalin has been close friends with Thorin since the battle for Moria but isn't a very political creature, working first for the townsguard of Thorin's Hall before moving up to become a Arbiter, a kind of dwarven judge who also metes out the punishment (usually a monetary fine or light strapping). Culturally, payment is payment and there isn't a heavy stigma against thieves and rogues who are careful not to get caught or at least take their judgment with grace.
> 
> Travel Times: http://www.theoriginalseries.com/traveltimes.htm  
> Dwarf Ages: http://thestolenrelic.tumblr.com/post/38605871042/broad-fact-collection-for-dwarf-ages-aka-all-you  
> And: http://dwarrowscholar.mymiddleearth.com/2012/04/27/the-age-of-dwarves/  
> Heights: http://whispers-and-shadows.tumblr.com/post/42272228918/venrajade-incredibly-useful-height-chart-from  
> Khuzdul Dictionary: http://www.scribd.com/doc/98387422/Khuzdul-Dictionary-E-K-v01-JUN12  
> Map: http://www.donsmaps.com/breetorivendelllotr.html  
> And: http://www.donsmaps.com/middleearthmap.html  
> Backgrounds assembled from the movie, dvd behind-the-scenes, LOTR wiki, Tolkien gateway, just about everywhere


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